


First Time for Everything

by dentinthesystem



Series: Days of Our Lives [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, High School, Hunt, Preseries, Young Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentinthesystem/pseuds/dentinthesystem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lives are filled with firsts - first driver's test, first trip to Disneyland, first beer, first house party, and (in the Winchester's case) first failed hunt. Having strived for independence from their father for so long, Sam and Dean suddenly strike opportunity. But they must face the harsh reality that even the slightest screw-ups can lead to the first dead body at their feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Time for Everything

**Author's Note:**

> First entry in the series "Days of Our Lives", depicting the earlier escapades and experiences of Sam and Dean Winchester, previous to the show's pilot.

Initially, it seemed, the sea was indecisive. The waves, at first impact forceful, could never quite retreat completely – lapping furiously against the rocks, dragging down sticks and twigs, only to spit back out those buoyant, flimsy materials. Flung them back onto the shore, only to return and swallow them again.

Like a child picking petals from a flower – _I love you. I love you not. I love you. No, I don’t. I love you …_ And the sea loved the vic that day. Sucked him up and engulfed him like the tongue lurching forth from the mouth of a frog, ensnaring an insect and dragging it down to the pitch black depths of its innards.

Sam watched him go, his feet slick with mud and sand, and the slippery redness that had first seemed so thick, but was now dissipating at contact with the sea, the waves spraying at his ankles, going so far as to blanket them for brief moments. Then it retreated, like some lurking creature – biding its time.

The salt stung. Sam didn’t move.

The boy had been scrawny, sixteen – two years older than Sam was now. He hadn’t gone quick, either. It had been more of a gradual decline into nothingness – a ceiling fan still desperately spinning long after it had been switched off, continuing it’s trapped circular illusion of progress until the last second of momentum had been spent and it inevitably slowed into still oblivion.

Sam and Dean had knelt beside him, his blood leaving smudges on their fingertips. Too late – _too late._ Sam had searched for that blank quality he knew dead boys were supposed to have instilled in them. But the glossy orbs hadn’t looked all too different. Except now, they didn’t blink when Dean stood and speckles of sand flew into them. Sam had sat there for a long time.

Now, Dean shifted in the sand behind him. A hand fluttered to his shoulder, and then fell away. “C’mon, Sam. Let’s go.”

Sam turned, craned his neck to get a better look at the fenced-in structure behind them – a hulking construction of red brick, set atop the hill, past the steep tree-covered slope. The distant swell of mundane chatter was shrill in his ears, even from here. A hundred kids who had not seen what they’d seen, done what they’d done. A hundred kids, laughing in their own ignorant bliss, as if a boy’s life had not just faded away, eased itself messily out of the word. They probably knew the vic better than Sam did. He wondered how deeply they would miss him.

“Back to class?” Sam’s voice was cracked.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

Sam lowered his eyes to the headless figure on the ground, beside him. The hair-covered sphere lay face-down in the sand a few feet off.

They’d dropped the vic off a pile of rocks – they’d climbed ten minutes to get the right spot before heaving him over. They’d bound a couple stones to his ankles. Sam had resisted the plan, initially. Wasn’t it better to leave the kid there? Dean had glanced at him was if he was an idiot, face abnormally pale beneath all those freckles; the injuries were too revealing, he said. Let it rot for a while where no one will think to look. Las time anyone had seen that vic, he’d been leaving second period, taken a stroll in the woods by the complex.

No notion had formed in Sam’s mind as to what to do with the thing that had killed that kid.

“What’re we gonna do with the vamp?”

“Oh. Right, yeah. Help me haul him. I’ll call dad.”

“Okay.”

He bent, muscles burning as he took the feet into his arms, straining to lift a figure twice his size; Dean took the arms. Blood slopped out from the stunted neck. Dean dodged out of the way as the two brothers rounded a corner around a rock.

“Fuck, Sam! Careful - these are nice jeans!”

“Sorry.”

They hid the body beneath a pile of stones, for their father to recover. Sam hesitated for a moment, then turned back until he stood, small in his cheap hand-me-down jacket, before the lump still lying there face-down, it’s matted hair waving idly in the breeze. Sam’s feet sank in the sand. He didn’t say anything, heard the disturbance beside him as Dean came to his side.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them moved. Then, in a sudden swoop, Dean’s arm lurched forwards, seized the hair, pitched the thing into the woods. Sam heard the crack as if struck branches. He didn’t move his head, stared at the redden place it had lain

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“If I’d just been a second faster …”

“Oh, shut up, Sam. It’s business – it’s the way this shit goes down.” There was an uneasy twinge to it; Dean didn’t sound so certain. He piped up suddenly again, “Hey – hey, we ganked the guy, okay? He got that kid, but he won’t be killing anyone else. That’s what counts.”

“That’s what counts,” Sam echoed quietly.

“You just gonna stand there like a broken record, or are we gonna get the hell outta here?”

“Okay.”

Sam went back to the tree line, flicking his bangs from his eyes as he knelt to slip his sneakers back on, tied the laces with trembling fingers. Neither of them spoke. No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes, Sam couldn’t shake the image of the dead boy’s face from his mind – pasted to the inside of his eyelids, gaping at him pale and cut open, cheekbone visible through the face, throat torn out.

“What if kids ask – about Jamie?” it was the first time he’d uttered his name. That was worse. He’d known the vic. _Known_ him. Since when had hunts been intended to be so personal?

“Then lie.” Dean was scrubbing the blood of his machete blade. They’d hidden their weapons in the woods, gone out during lunch to call their father, away from the noise – report that they’d heard nothing of the vamp supposedly lurking around there. Just rumours. That’s when they’d heard Jamie’s scream.

His mind went to Jamie’s girlfriend, giggling somewhere back at the school in her usual group of cronies. He imagined the smile slipping off her features. “I don’t think I can do it.”

“Well fuck it, Sam.” Dean turned to him suddenly. “Fuck, Sam – lie anyway.”

“I wish - we didn’t have to.” The words sounded stupid out of his lips, but Sam couldn’t stop them. They bubbled unstoppably forth.

Dean was no longer looking at him, straightening his jacket as he squinted back up at the school. “I wish we didn’t have to do a lot of things.” He hid the machete back in the woods, in the place they’d arranged with their father.

Sam rinsed his red-splattered hands in the ocean water, trying with a sickening lurch not to think of what (or who) that water contained. He failed. He stood for a moment, heaved, fighting the urge to vomit.

“You good?” Dean was inspecting his shirt for any traces of blood.

“Yeah, I’m good.” It seemed to Sam it was the only area in which they were adept at keeping neat.

The second warning bell rang in his ears as he stood and the two of them progressed back up the path to the school. It was as if Dean’s jaw was pasted shut – an odd phenomenon. As if it had been Dean, not Sam, who’d made their first major screw-up. Dean, not Sam, who’d been too slow. If Dean had stood where Sam had been at that moment, Sam was sure Jamie’s throat would still be fully-functioning. But Dean didn’t say anything. He hadn’t mentioned it in his quick phone conversation with their father, not when John had barked at him so loudly Sam could hear from meters away. Because, really, with that vamp in such close range, why hadn’t they just knocked it’s block off? There didn’t need to be a kid dead.

Sam wondered, then, if Dean had seen this before. If Dean had messed up like he had. But really … it struck him then that Dean had never been on a hunt without their father, either. Dean was no more adept at handling a victim than he was. Perhaps it was the first time he’d been let near a vic at all. It was worse that they’d seen the kid in the halls.

At their return to school, Sam first went to the washroom – made sure no redness still stained his face. He then collected his bag from his locker, marched towards his next class. He glanced himself up and down one last time – no traces of blood clung to his clothing. No smears were on his hands. He shifted his bag on his shoulder, and shoved open the grey door, took his seat by the back. Not even late for math class.


End file.
